


By the Glory of the Sun

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Grantaire pov, M/M, excessive italics and commentary, intense conviction to consent, it is very important to me that you know that I'm not attracted to enjolras, it's just fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 18:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Grantaire wakes up unable to remember anything--not that he's letting thesmoking hotblond escorting him home know that.Warnings:the briefest and most passing of hospital mentions, allusions to sexual acts (not depicted)





	By the Glory of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to my brilliant beta-reader [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) for not only reviewing this for me but also joining in on the Hemingway Workshop that led to its creation.
> 
> **Note:** This is an unresearched amnesia AU because  
1) I started it drunk  
2) on a one-hour time limit  
3) and nobody ever fucking researches these things anyway. 
> 
> Suspend your disbelief for an entire 2.7k, I beg you.

“Oh fuck, Grantaire,” a bald man gasps, pulling him into a teary hug. 

Several other sets of arms wrap around Grantaire before he’s finally allowed to settle back into the bed. They all chatter happily as he drifts somewhere in purgatory, a lazy space between consciousness and unconsciousness. 

He hasn’t had the heart to tell them as they eagerly update on what he’s missed, but he has no idea who any of them are.

—-

Grantaire goes home the next day with a blond man—a _hot_ blond man, so _fucking_ hot. At some point he’s gathered that part of the man’s name is ‘Enjolras,’ and he’s not worried about the rest because it doesn’t seem too important. Enjolras allows him into an apartment that he immediately recognizes as being way too nice to belong to him. He would never think to put the dishes away or tidy up his art supplies or, hell, fold his laundry. Enjolras must be a very generous friend. 

A very generous, _fiery hot_ friend.

Having managed to fake his way this far, he doesn’t want to lose his lead by being outright inappropriate—and anyway, he figures he’s done well enough that he can probably afford to ask an innocuous question or two by now.

“Uh, hey, Enjolras,” he calls to where the blond is cutting celery. The man is doing it terribly, Grantaire knows that much, but it doesn’t stop the somehow still-confident movements of his hands from being irresistibly attractive.

“Yeah?” Enjolras sounds slightly breathless in his response, and it makes Grantaire want to drop to his knees on the spot.

Right. Focus.

“Sorry, I can’t seem to remember where I sleep?” He could only find one bedroom, the space coordinated and neat, an air freshener somewhere he _couldn’t find_ and no loose leaves of doodles or paintings or notes or lists or out-of-place books anywhere. There’s simply no way it belongs to anyone but the composed man in front of him.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, and Enjolras’s attention diverts from the celery that he’s...mincing? What is this sexy, sexy man inflicting upon this poor, defenseless vegetable?

“In the bedroom, with me. Unless…” the blond eyes him warily, “unless you’d rather not?”

“No!” he responds immediately. “No, no, shared bed is fine.” 

It had _definitely_ been the wrong thing to say: Enjolras continues looking at him, eyeing him up and down in a manner that Grantaire might normally find flattering from such an aggressively _fine_ man but now only finds severely disconcerting. He and Enjolras must be _extremely_ good friends.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Grantaire nods quickly. He has no interest in returning to the hospital. “Yeah, just. Just tired, that's all.”

Dinner is okay. 

‘Okay’ is rather generous, honestly, but Enjolras is _really fucking hot_—like _so fucking hot_—and he talks to Grantaire all through dinner with this voice that’s smooth as velvet and yeah, dinner is okay.

Grantaire offers to do dishes, and that seems to be the right thing to do because Enjolras nods, leaving his things in the sink as he goes to his—to _their_ bedroom. 

Doing dishes is automatic and feels familiar and somehow comforting in a way that nothing else has. Moving the sponge over the plates and pans brings him ease, as does the Edith Piaf playing in the background. Humming along, a smile comes to his face. He can do this. He can play along with this life until things are back to normal, until he remembers again—and he _should_ remember again. It’s what’s supposed to happen.

There are hands on his hips, and he jumps as thumbs slide easily into his waistband, nearly dropping the cup in his hand.

_Not friends, then._ He’ll figure out how he finagled that one another day.

“You all right?” Enjolras asks, mouthing hot, open kisses along his neck in a way he distantly recognizes he likes. 

His breath is hitching in his throat, and _fuck fuck fuck super-sexy cooking-deficient Apollo wants to fuck, holy shit._

The answer should be ‘yes’—an immediate, enthusiastic, leg-humping _yes:_ a veritable golden _god_ is pressed up behind Grantaire and playing him like a Goddamned piano, but it’s not right. Something in his brain screams out in protest—it’s not right. Enjolras thinks he’s propositioning someone else for sex, not him, and as hot as it’s making him, it’s not…

_Consensual._

Lines of propaganda run through his mind, and if the automatic response wasn’t enough hearing the vengeful voice reciting lines through his head with conviction and precise righteousness is.

“No.”

“Hm?” Enjolras’s wandering hands freeze, the blond’s breath hot on his neck, and Grantaire is ready to take it back.

“Um. I’m not quite ‘all right.’” Understatement. “Feeling a bit, uh, peakish, actually. Maybe tomorrow?” he suggests with a gulp. It’s against everything he wants—physically and psychologically—and the departure of warmth (and of course _here_ his troll-brain easily fills in lines and lines of glorious praise for the super-sexy-hot Sun God that has to be more memory than spontaneous inspiration...right?) feels like a mistake, but his brain relaxes as the pressure of performance releases its hold on him.

“Right. Of course. I’m sure you’re tired.”

“Tired,” he agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s been a big day.”

“I’ll, um. I’ll be in the room?”

“Great,” Grantaire smiles. “I’ll be in once I’m finished here.”

Enjolras is stretched out across the right side of the bed when Grantaire finally appears. Despite what he’d told the man (_bronzed and glorious_, delectable muscles on display more than making up for how void of appeal dinner had been), he’d felt oddly compelled to take a shower before going to bed. Sure, he’d showered before leaving the hospital, but...he showers before bed. Something about it feels essential to who he is as a person.

The shower had gone more smoothly than he’d expected: Grantaire had been nervous that he wouldn’t recognize the bathroom in much the same way that the kitchen and bedroom felt foreign and unfamiliar, but once he’d started instinct had taken over, and before he knew it he was already toweled-off and entering the bedroom.

Unfortunately, muscle memory only takes him this far, and he can feel the smouldering _sexy, sexy_ gaze of the man who is apparently not just his friend eyeing him carefully as Grantaire stares helplessly at the drawers before him. Is it a sexy eyeing? A doubtful eyeing? Whatever the intended goal, Grantaire feels both effects wholly and equally.

He takes a wild guess at the drawer that seems most correct and barely contains his sigh of relief at the boxers he finds therein. The Sun God behind him (probably not just a fuckbuddy, but possibly just a fuckbuddy) (where flamingly hot ethereal beings are involved, beggars can’t be choosers, and he is definitely the beggar in this scenario) (on his knees preferably) (but other positions are also good) (anyway) is only wearing boxers (and _boy_ is he), so just this is probably fine. 

Is it ridiculous to feel self-conscious about getting dressed in front of Hotty McShortPants when the man had been propositioning him not thirty minutes ago and Grantaire has been going wild at the thought of begging the Adonis for the honor of blowing him? Perhaps. (Yes.) But it feels different, and that should count for something.

Nevertheless, he has a pretense to maintain, and so the towel drops to the floor as Grantaire steps into his boxer shorts, facing away from the bed with forced casualness. When he turns, Enjolras is still watching him, whatever he’d been reading before long-forgotten as he stares Grantaire down with hungry eyes.

What’s the opposite of take-backsies? Give-backsies? Can he call give-backsies on consent? He’s pretty sure he can.

But it’d still be dishonest. Sighing, Grantaire examines the bed. The left is open, but something about going there seems viscerally wrong. That said, he doesn’t know enough about himself to really make an intelligent call. 

Instinct hasn’t led him wrong yet (except the whole _not boning the sexiest being he has ever laid eyes_ on thing, but he’s willing to give that a pass), so he shoves himself up beside Enjolras on the right side, half-falling out as the blond gives a surprised laugh. The places where their bare skin touches are driving Grantaire a little mad, and he gives himself a moment to recover before speaking.

_“Move.”_

“This is my side,” Enjolras insists through giggles.

“Humor me,” Grantaire grins, giving the man an extra push. 

The blond is finally rolled over on his back, and this is _so_ much worse (_more glorious_) than when the man’s front was still buried in bedding.

_Fuck._

Enjolras must notice Grantaire’s open admiration (look, he’s been doing a good job keeping everything else under wraps, he should be allowed this), because he twists his shoulders back upright so he’s resting on an elbow in a way he just _has_ to know is as seductive as it is. “You sure you’re too tired?”

In a moment of weakness, Grantaire allows his eyes to drag slowly over the Adonis spread before him, starting at that devastating heel of Achilles, tracing up sculpted calves, a chiseled torso, and lean arms to that most delicately carved face and the nest of gold atop before pulling back down with equally intentional rapture.

He gulps, face aflame and grateful that he is lying on his stomach. “Extremely tired.”

Enjolras’s expression falls, but given that Grantaire can see that the man isn’t exactly unaffected either he takes the rejection rather gracefully. “Get the light?”

The lightswitch is, fortunately, positioned exactly where lightswitches belong, and in a matter of moments the room is dark and Grantaire is situated in sheets much nicer than he has ever been able to afford before.

_Am I a sugar baby? _

It’d certainly make sense—except for dinner, that was atrocious, and any proper sugar daddy has no excuse for cooking that poorly and not having a live-in chef. Unless Grantaire is usually the one handling food? In which case, this is the jankiest arrangement he’s ever heard of, and he should really demand to see their contract. 

(On the other hand, if he’s really as easy for Enjolras as he evidently is, he was probably willing to negotiate in all sorts of stupidass shit for the opportunity to have access to that _sweet, sweet bod_. Calling any sort of contract into question probably isn’t in his best interest.)

At long last, he feels Enjolras settle under the comforter with him.

“G’night, Grantaire,” the sleepy voice calls, and it isn’t even fair that a Greek god is allowed to sound so tender and soft and vulnerable, what the hell.

“G’night,” he responds, turning on his side and resigning himself to attempting rest.

It makes no sense, but the other side of the bed feels entirely too still.

“Grantaire?”

“Hmm?”

“How much do you really remember?”

The voice is too steely, too confident, and the blood in Grantaire’s veins goes icy.

_Shit._

“What gave me away?”

“How much, Grantaire?” 

He sighs, rolling onto his back. “I’m sure the rest of my name will come to me eventually.”

A prolonged huff sounds from Enjolras’s side before he hears the noises of fabric on fabric. “Right. I’ll be on the couch, then. We’ll return to the hospital first thing.”

Stoney silence sits between them. “That’s fair.”

The rustling stops in the doorway for long enough that Grantaire almost believes Enjolras capable of soundless travel until he hears a sigh, footsteps disappearing into the hallway.

By some miracle, sleep eventually takes him.

—-

Something is wrong, and Grantaire can’t quite put his finger on it. 

The first dim rays of morning shine through the window, and the alarm hasn’t sounded yet, which is normal.

He feels clean, his mouth has only the barest of morning breath disgustingness, and he still has an appropriate amount of blanket.

He’s still wearing boxers, which isn’t uncommon enough to really take note of. The silence, though, something about the utter silence— 

Enjolras.

The previous day rushes back to him, and Grantaire springs out of bed, ignoring that Enjolras has turned the AC up far too high in his absence and sprinting to the living room.

_There._

Grantaire doesn’t hesitate before launching himself onto the couch, wrapping himself around the blond lump he finds burritoed in their spare comforter. Ignoring the snores that rapidly shift to groans of the unwillingly woken, he peppers kisses over the little exposed flesh that isn’t being pulled further the blanket. (In truth, Grantaire is catching a lot of hair, but he can’t bring himself to mind.)

“You _idiot_,” he croons. “I actually cannot believe you.”

Apparently being insulted is enough to snap the blond from his sleepy haze.

“Grantaire?” The face peeks out slightly more earnestly before understanding the assault currently hailing down on him. Grantaire allows his husband enough give to remove his arms from their self-inflicted confinements and reach out in defense.

“Hey Pooky,” he responds, pulling Enjolras in for a tight hug. “I can’t believe it took the absence of terrible fucking petnames for you to realize I couldn’t remember _shit_.”

“You passed all of my other tests!” 

“I’m wearing _your_ boxers!”

“And it’s a good look,” Enjolras insists, finally twisting around enough to rest a hand on Grantaire’s chest. “You should consider doing it more often.”

Tempting as his husband’s bedroom eyes are (and _Gods_ are they tempting), Enjolras isn’t getting out of this that easily. “You tried to force me out of my side of the bed!”

“And you still figured it out!”

“You. Are. Ridiculous,” Grantaire informs the man, punctuating each word with a peck. Enjolras is really, actually glowing with laughter in the dim morning light, and Grantaire can’t believe that there was a period of time that he lived without this knowledge. “And ruthless, I can’t believe you didn’t catch on after I turned down sex with you. _Twice_.”

Enjolras struggles out of Grantaire’s grasp, only narrowly avoiding falling off of the couch by merit of Grantaire’s bodyweight on the rest of the comforter hammocking him in. “I didn’t want to shame you the first time you ever have—you were out for two days, and the doctors said you should take it easy!”

“_Yeah_ I should,” Grantaire grins, pulling his husband in for a suggestive grind of his hips. “I dunno, I was getting all sorts of hung up on consent protocol, and you did not make it easy.” Pausing a moment to wrap Enjolras in another hug, Grantaire proceeds. “Speaking of, I have reconsidered wedding bands. Job hazards be damned, I never want to forget that we are _le-gal-ly con-joined_ ever again.”

“Goddammit,” Enjolras laughs, pushing his face into Grantaire’s chest. “What did you think we were to one another?”

“At first, friends. Then _really_ good friends. Then _very extremely good sexy_ friends. There was a brief moment where I considered a daddy-baby relationship.”

“Oh?” Enjolras’s eyebrows raise, and Grantaire has to kiss each of them immediately. “Wha—Jesus, _stop_—what convinced you otherwise?”

Another peck is pressed to his husband’s cheek. “No self-respecting man of money would allow anyone he cared about to eat that poorly.”

“Of course,” the blond laughs, shaking his head. “How could I have been so absentminded?”

“Well,” Grantaire intimates, “there is one way you could make it up to me.”

“Yeah?” Enjolras’s breath is warm on Grantaire’s face, and Grantaire tugs him in a little tighter.

“A little bird told me that I’ve been sleeping alone the past three nights, and I am in _serious_ need of proper cuddles somewhere no one is at risk of falling to the ground.”

Enjolras smiles up at him, and Grantaire’s heart soars. “That can be arranged.”

**Author's Note:**

> So anyway, I clearly had a blast writing this in every phase of the writing process. I'd also like to reiterate, in case you missed it in the tags, that I am not actually attracted to Enjolras in any way, shape, or form. 
> 
> If it wasn't clear: Grantaire usually wishes Enjolras 'good night' with an absolutely absurd petname, and that's what gave him away.
> 
> Your comments and feedback actually have the power to Make My Day/Week/Month/Life, so if you liked it please do that or message me at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com). <3


End file.
